


The Appeal of Percival Dumbledore

by stitchy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Canon-Compliant, M/M, pre-FBWTFT, the bloodpact, the elderwand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 10:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16742194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/pseuds/stitchy
Summary: After stealing the Elder Wand there's only one person Grindewald would like to tell, but he needs a gesture of goodwill to ease the way.AKA My attempt to allow for the fathering of a secret extra Dumblebrother.





	The Appeal of Percival Dumbledore

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to Viktor Krum.

     As soon as his feet hit the ground, Gellert takes off running toward the treeline. In the days before the break in at the wandmaker’s shop, he had placed a feather-fall spell below the window, cleared the pasture of any uneven terrain, and charmed a grove of beech trees to ease his escape. In the hours just before before his little heist, he apparated in and out of these woods in Romania to locations all across Europe, to confuse any trackers. Now, he races through the night into the shadowy trees, and can see the dark tombstone-like shape of his garment bag, hung on a knot. With a final stride, he pushes through the unbuttoned flaps as though it were the door of a tent and steps into daylight. He sighs in relief as he reaches behind his ear to hook a finger through the hanger and drape it casually over his shoulder. As far as anyone on this street is concerned, a rather fashionable young man has just stepped out of a tailors shop with a new suit.

     The door of _Sedas de Lisboa_ is one of five portals his garment bag may open to, and at this moment, the closest to a regularly scheduled (and entirely anonymous) portkey to Denmark where he can board a muggle boat to Sweden. So many layers of misdirection would be overkill for most wizards and most occasions- but it isn’t every day a wizard steals The Elder Wand.

     In the middle of the Øresund strait, he chances unsheathing his new wand from the special pocket in his coat. He spins it between thumb and forefinger on either end and admires the shape- knobbed along its length into segments, like a skeletal finger. Each knuckle is pocked with age, befitting its ancient legacy. A magnetism radiates from it, inviting touch and craving use. Many wands have a sort of living, breathing quality in hand - this one snarls. It’s a barely tame beast on a chain. It’s beautiful. _If only Albus could see this_ , he thinks.

     It’s been over a year since he had fled from Godric’s Hollow and last seen him. Nearly sevenfold the time they had spent together has now been spent apart, but it is still Albus he thinks of first when he revels in his victory. It ought to be _their_ victory. So few are worthy to understand it, and only one is suited to share it. Albus was both match and minion, idol and adherent. If only they had left before his goatbrained brother had interfered, everything would have gone to plan... They’d be standing on the deck together, laughing into the North wind, Ariana’s wild power protected, safely folded away. There would be no pain, no separation, no sense of missing something that is impossible to regain. Gellert shakes his head. He doesn’t believe in 'impossible'. The Hallows were supposed to be impossible and he saw right through that, didn’t he?

     He tries to imagine what would happen if he appeared on the Dumbledore doorstep right now. He can see clearly the angry flash of blue eyes. Then a backfiring hex, as Albus forgets their pact. _You've ruined everything!_ He advances on Gellert, grabbing him by the collar. _A broken heart._ Perhaps a blow to the face the muggle way. _Destroyed the family!_ Sitting in the dirt with a black eye. _Not welcome here._ The door slams shut.

     Gellert dries the sea spray from his clothes with a twist of the wand before tucking it away again. In the long run it will be better not to have Albus set against him as he sees through his grand vision; he’s always known this.

_“Gellert, I have to tell you-”_

_“Don't.”_ _  
_

_“Why?”_

_“I’ll die if you don’t mean it. You’re so brilliant. The only one I’ll ever love. What will become of me when you change your mind?”_

_“I couldn’t! Gellert! I would never hurt you.”_

_“You can’t promise that.”_ _  
_

_“I can! Listen...”_

     Of course, he let Albus think the bloodpact was his idea. Despite the wind, he keeps warm by the memory of the evening after, spent sealing their promise. He sighs. No matter how sure he is of himself, Gellert knows it would all be so much easier if they worked together. It doesn't hurt that it would be more _enjoyable_ , too.

     There was still a chance, if he could think of something brilliant. It might not be too late to make amends. There’s no undoing Ariana- not with this Hallow, at least- but there may be a yet unseen opportunity. By the time the boat reaches the shore at Malmö he has hatched a plan.

     In one of his portals he begins a brew of polyjuice. This is the least impressive but most versatile of the locations his garment bag may transport him to. The windowless cellar of his cottage in Austria behaves much like an undetectably-extended suitcase might. (Or a lab, or a prison- whatever he has need of.) While he waits for the potion to mature, he finds a Bulgarian wizard with credentials enough to take a case before the Wizengamot, yet who has never been to Britain, and writes a letter.

     Within a week, the owl returns with a court date. Percival Dumbledore consents to an appeal, now that Ariana’s delicate condition is no longer a necessary secret to keep. Gellert curses a Ministry witch to suppress record of the trial, and trusts in his natural gift for persuasion to do the rest. As Andrev Krum, he presents The Wizengamot with the pitiful sight of a ten year resident of Azkaban, and discloses for the first time the paternal passion that drove the wretched man to his crime. _Vot any father vould do,_ he says, meeting the eyes of the jurors. They nod gravely and give Percival time served.

     The stooped wizard in the center of the room barely reacts when his dementor guards finally release him into counselor’s custody. The dark creatures ascend to the vaulted ceiling and disperse, and the members of the court file out in the damp fog that remains.

     “Wh.. what’s happened?” asks a thin voice.

     “You von,” he tells Percival in Krum’s gruff voice. He gently takes the man’s elbow to direct him out of the chamber. “Come. I have a room for you at The Leaky Cauldron.”

     Percival shuffles along as though he were twice his fifty years. At the door to the hall he stops in his tracks and cranes his neck to look at Krum. His head wobbles with a palsy, but familiar blue eyes peer up, brimming with tears. “Will they be there?”

     “Not yet. I vos vaiting to clean you up, first.” He gestures to the matted gray beard that hangs from Percival’s chin all the way to his belt of his tattered prizon rags. Truth be told, he’d like to change and shave, too. This accent is sour on his tongue, and he always felt sticky and scruffy after a transformation. He fully intends to escort Percival back to his family as himself.

     The make their way through the black stone corridors toward the the Ministry entrance at a glacial pace.

     “I’ll send an owl to Albus, at vonce.” Gellert’s skin tingles, warning him that has just minutes before his appearance will revert. “He’s become a very accomplished vizard, you know. Von the Barnabus Finkley, and the gold at the Alchemical Conference. Top marks in all his N.E.W.T.s. His vork is published in every periodical...” The urgency of a waning potion makes him more fervent on the subject than Krum ought to be, he can’t help getting a bit carried away. In mere hours he could be with Albus. _Yes_ , the Floos are in sight now. _He_ is in sight. They stop in front of the closest fireplace in the long hall where folk of every kind exit and enter the Ministry. He fishes some powder out of his pocket and cups it into Percival’s withered hand.

     “He hadn’t even had his Hogwarts letter yet when I was taken to Azkaban,” Percival says, staring at the floopowder. It sparkles green as witches and wizards around them summon the traveling flames. “He and Aberforth, and Ariana. No father,” he says, obviously ashamed. “It’s terrible.”

     Gellert catches himself before he can sigh impatiently. Albus put up a stronger front than his miserable father was now giving him credit for, and it irritated him. “He vill be pleased to see you. All vill be forgiven.” That’s what he’s counting on. That’s why he’s here. He holds his breath as though it might keep the potion from wearing off any sooner.

     “Is my wife... Is she all right? After Ariana.”

     His stomach sinks. Gellert had counted on the news in and out of Azkaban being slow, but he didn’t think of this. His hands sting as his skin begins to shrink. There’s no time now to weave a pretty lie. There’s no time to tell the ugly truth, either. “Sir... Please. To the Leaky Cauldron,” he says. “Ve can talk there.”

     Percival Dumbledore steps into the Floo, voice cracking. “She is gone then,” he croaks and drops his handful of powder. “Back to Azkaban!” With a woosh of the fire, he vanishes.

     “Shit!” Gellert blocks off the fireplace with both arms, hunching down as Krum’s face starts to bubble away. He ducks his head and grabs another handful of powder. He can’t stay here! He can’t waltz into _Azkaban_ , either. He can’t do anything but- “The Leaky Cauldron!”

     He emerges from the fire at the inn, fuming, stumbling over a chair as he races through the common room to the stairs. The barkeeper shouts in alarm as he pounds his way up the stairs to his room, flinging the door open by wand. Without a word he summons the cellar in his garment bag and rages in, ready to strike.

     The real Andrev Krum goes rigid, petrified. He makes no sound as Gellert slashes his wand like a blade.

 _Coward!_ He slices _. Idiot!_ He stabs _. You’ve ruined everything!_

     With a sick fascination Gellert realizes he’s cut the shape of a triangle into the man. He twirls his wand with a sneer. Carves a circle. With a final gouge, the Death Stick signs it’s work. Its first kill under its new master. He summons the portal to an abandoned stone arch in Russia and blasts Krum’s body through it.

 

\---

 

Cecilia Framboise is sitting by the fire of the Black Topaz Café, skimming a book on gastromagiques and marking recipes she might like to try when the skinniest, dirtiest man she has ever seen comes toppling out. She might mistake him for an unnaturally tall house elf, if not for his faded, striped clothes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [shrug] idk that's how *I'm* ironing out the canon to allow for an unknown Dumbledore, I'd love to hear the mental gymnastics you're doing!


End file.
